Linda Pastan

The Happiest Day - Poem by Linda Pastan

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It was early May, I thinka moment of lilac or dogwoodwhen so many promises are madeit hardly matters if a few are broken.My mother and father still hoveredin the background, part of the scenerylike the houses I had grown up in,and if they would be torn down laterthat was something I knewbut didn't believe. Our children were asleepor playing, the youngest as newas the new smell of the lilacs,and how could I have guessedtheir roots were shallowand would be easily transplanted.I didn't even guess that I was happy.The small irritations that are like salton melon were what I dwelt on,though in truth they simplymade the fruit taste sweeter.So we sat on the porchin the cool morning, sippinghot coffee. Behind the news of the day--strikes and small wars, a fire somewhere--I could see the top of your dark headand thought not of public conflagrationsbut of how it would feel on my bare shoulder.If someone could stop the camera then...if someone could only stop the cameraand ask me: are you happy?perhaps I would have noticedhow the morning shone in the reflectedcolor of lilac. Yes, I might have saidand offered a steaming cup of coffee.